back up blog

I shouldn't be let loose in public alone. I just shouldn't. It is a notion that occurred to me when I was at the bank last week. The nice chap looking after me- the obligatory, just-out-of-school, very-bad-skinned, Jesus-why-don't-you-cut-your-nails-for-crying-out-loud new boy with a bad haircut- had just offered me a credit card. Knowing he could see my balance on his screen I laughed at him. Out loud. He stared at me. It dawned on me that he wasn't joking. "I can't have a credit card," I told him. "I have no self control". "Ah, yes madam," he countered, "But you see with the offer we have today you have 56 days interest free to pay back what you borrow". "Ah, yes," I said back to him, "But you see, I won't pay it back. I'll buy a plane ticket somewhere, draw the rest out as cash, and deal with any consequences later. Or never." The chap narrowed his eyes at me. "I'm just being honest,&qu

Life envy- it sucks. I recently came back from a few days staying with an impossibly gorgeous friend in Paris. Her life comes complete with top-floor apartment, balcony, views, and an absurdly good looking middle-eastern neighbour. She has a Parisienne musician boyfriend with big eyes and floppy hair, whom incidentally she is (understandably) in absolute lust with and paws at like a child with a new (impressively attractive) toy, and a plethora of artist friends with that certain je ne sais quoi that all French artists seem to have. (What with my numerous experiences of French artists and everything, of course I can make sweeping generalisations like that. D'uh.) I mean, old Pablo wasn't much of a looker was he, but he seemed to do alright when it came to keeping the other side of the bed warm. There is just something about a man with a snarl on his lips and a paintbrush in his hand that makes a girl throw herself at his feet and say, 'OKAY! DIP YOUR NUMBER TWO BRUSH IN